


Hero of One

by SheerSaxifrage



Series: Delayed Fates [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: F/M, Gen, No Deeprealms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheerSaxifrage/pseuds/SheerSaxifrage
Summary: To be her hero, he would gladly be everyone else's villain.(Or: Percy is shoved down a dark road, and reacts accordingly.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You ever wake up in a cold sweat and ask yourself: _what if I made Percy morally gray?_
> 
> So, that's this story. Like like I said in the prelude Hiraeth, this is taking place in the same universe/framework as Perpetual Rainbow Rings. Felicia is Percy's mother here, and because I believe Mother's Matter, he's from the Ice Tribe; this effects the way he views and interacts with the world. The same could also be said of Dwyer, who's mother is Flora.
> 
> Like Ryoma, Xander is under Anankos's influence here. But things are still kinda-sorta okay since it’s less than a year into his reign. That... will change. 
> 
> This story is also going to come to focus around Percy and (Princess) Ophelia's relationship. Because goddamn, do I love those two together. 
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> **(Warnings for graphic violence towards the end. Warnings for implied sexual assault. Warnings for character death.)**

**I**

_Age 7_

" _Close your eyes, and imagine the biggest thing you know. What do you see?"_

_Percy did as he was told. He imagined their house: one story, facing north. His mother in the kitchen, cooking up some disaster. His Uncle Jakob a few feet away, berating her while he brewed his coffee. The fire going strong in the hearth. His pops tripping over something on his way to the study, where Grandpa and Aunt Flora discussed tribal matters. Dwyer in their room going over healing tomes. He was told their house was modeled in the classic style, made popular before the tribe settled on Ice Mountain: adults slept on either side of the house, the center was used for gathering, and the back was where the children and animals were kept. It made sense for the period it came from, back when they weren't so safe and invaders were common. So their rooms were big, but they were so used to peace that furniture came to clutter what should have been open, airy spaces._

_But was his house really the biggest thing? No, there was the Ice Village itself. It took him about two hours to walk from one side of their lands to the other. Along the way he'd pass the butchers and the tailors and taxidermists, who all knew him by name as the chief's grandson. After that he'd pass the garrison, and depending on the time of dark-day he might catch a glimpse of their conscripted going through their drills. Then he'd pass the library, a whole eight stories sturdy; right next to it was the main hall, where the tribe would meet communally and Grandpa Kilma held diplomatic meetings. Past that was the Moon Shrine, where there was always at least one sorcerer doing spellwork or performing a sacrifice on behalf of the tribe. He'd pass their ice pond. He'd pass their field of sculptures, beautiful images etched in ice by their finest artists. And then, finally, he'd make it to The End, their cliff overlooking the abyss below._

_Ice Village was big. Certainly, the biggest ever. "Our tribe," he finally answered._

_"Are you sure? What about the mountain?"_

_Ice Mountain, of course! The Ice Tribe wouldn't be what it was if it weren't for their mountain, the steep slope and thick forest that kept them safe from all bad guys everywhere. "Aw man, you're right! Okay, the mountain."_

_"Ice Mountain is bigger than our village, but is it really the biggest thing in the world?"_

_"Yeah. What else is there?"_

_Flora cleared her throat, but didn't answer immediately. Of course, Percy knew there were things down in the world below. His father told him about Nohr and Windmire and Castle Krakenburg, but he couldn't imagine any of those places being bigger than what he grew up around._

_Suddenly, Flora placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned in close. "Well, guess what? The moon is even bigger than_ that _."_

_He opened his eyes and saw his aunt with her finger in the air, pointing to the moon's lovely face._

_"When I was a girl, I thought I was lucky to live up here, since it put me closer to the sky. But I've traveled the world, and I can tell you the moon looks the same everywhere. Strange, don't you think?" He voice lowered to a reverent whisper. "But that means no matter what happens or where we go, she stays the same. Isn't that wonderful, Percy? Isn't it?"_

* * *

 

His pops split his time between tribal grounds and Castle Krakenburg. Marrying into the Ice Tribe did not mean his fight for justice had ended, and he best channeled his heroism through his service to Lady Elise. The summer before he turned eight was the first time his father invited him along on one of his trips.

Both Grandpa Kilma and Aunt Flora took issue with his timing. It conflicted with their seasonal pilgrimage to the bottom of the mountain, where they would honor the blessings of summer and celebrate the eventual onslaught of winter. He remembered his aunt narrowing her blue eyes, her thin lips stretched taut across her face as Grandpa Kilma stressed the importance of their rituals.

Percy lowered his head, tears of anger glistening in his eyes. He'd been waiting for  _ages_  for his pops to invite him to the capital, to the  _castle_ , and he didn't want to miss it for some boring old tradition. Luckily, his mom was there to back him up.

"It'll be good for Percy to see Krakenburg for himself. It'll give him a chance to make friends with the royal children."

"There are plenty of children here he can spend time with," Aunt Flora quipped.

"But let me remind you, it's the royal children of today who will be running Nohr tomorrow—just as Percy will one day be involved in leading our tribe. It's good that he forms friendships with them now before politics get in the way." She let out an airy laugh. "Think of it as his first diplomatic mission!"

Percy didn't know what a 'diplomatic mission' was; it was the 'making friends' bit that caught his attention.  _Friends? With the royal children?_

"Do you honestly think he'll be able to do that?" his aunt asked, mirroring his thoughts. "You know what those who live at the bottom of the mountain think of us."

"That you're hospitable? Charming? A beacon of justice to be envied near and far?" his pops interjected, the bite in his buttery words going over Percy's head. "I can assure you, I am intimately aware! And Percy is an exemplary tribesman. Wouldn't you agree, Felicia?"

His pops addressed the question to his mom, but even Percy could tell that the words were meant for Aunt Flora. But Felicia answered anyway, folding her hands over her lap as she nodded. "Sure is! The royals will  _love_  him. And if he forms bonds with them now, it'll help secure our position. You can't tell me that's a bad thing, father."

Grandpa Kilma leaned back in his seat, his smoky gray eyes settling on Percy like a fog after rainfall. It was the look he gave Dwyer whenever he got it in him to supervise their studies. Percy remembered how Dwyer would always keep his head down, his unwashed hair curtaining around his face. Grandpa Kilma didn't seem to like that, his murky expression sharpening into a scowl Dwyer never saw.

So Percy met his grandfather's eyes, fighting the urge to place his hands on his hips and puff out his chest.  _Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost, but a glacier that endures through time._

Language aside, even Percy knew what the admonition meant. He drew his features into one of peaceful neutrality. They were only supposed to apply their warrior's spirit to their enemies—not to fellow tribesmen, and  _certainly_  never to the chief. But inside, he wanted to jump and shout.  _I'll show 'em, Grandpa! I'll show 'em the strength of our tribe! They'll love us, I promise!_

"Very well. He may go, on the condition that on your way back you take him to our ritual cites." Grandpa Kilma smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "Our gods would certainly accept the late offerings of a sincere child."

His pops placed a hand on his shoulder. It was meant to look like a gesture of assurance, but it was really their secret code.  _Keep still. We aren't alone yet._

Only when they  _were_  alone did Percy throw himself into his pops' arms and thank his mom for backing him up. A vacation, not only to the bottom of the mountain, but all the way to the capital! To hang out with someone other than his dowdy cousin for once! To see what all those other people saw. It would be the best five days  _ever_.

* * *

_That night, he had a dream:_

_In the distance, past the thicket of trees that stretched onward into The End, there was a girl riding the wind. In the pale moonlight, her face was two-toned: both enlightened and cast in shadow, illuminated in her dark dealings. She seemed to almost levitate above the wyvern she rode on, lifted up and carried in the air as though she were one with it. The dead Nohrian glades withered even more in her presence. She was covered in shimmering starlight._

* * *

Two days later, his face was buried in Lady Elise's chest. The buttons on her collar dug into his skin, but he knew better than to try and rip himself away from a royal. She was nice, otherwise. Along with Arthur, the three of them went to introduce Percy to King Xander.

When they got to the throne room, Percy kneeled before him just as he was taught, head bowed in deference. When King Xander commanded him to rise, he did so carefully in hopes that the man before him wouldn't notice his trembling knees. He had to crane his neck to look up at the king; not only did he stand on the elevated platform before his throne, but he was naturally tall besides. Definitely taller than his pops, who until then was the biggest person he'd ever known.

King Xander stared down at him, a storm brewing behind his violet eyes.

In that moment, Percy felt scared. Where did pops go? Why was the king looking at him with such disdain? He felt tears gather in his eyes, but he forced them back.  _Be cold of heart, be stoic in character. A true Ice Tribesman is not a thin layer of frost—_

"This is your son, Arthur?" he asked flatly.

"Yes, milord."

"Fourth in line to the chief's chair."

"Yes."

"He doesn't look like your typical Ice Tribesman."

Arthur didn't respond to this. Percy could hardly think of an answer himself. What was an Ice Tribesman 'supposed' to look like?

"He has his mother's eyes," the king murmured, almost as an afterthought.

"He does."

"Summer is coming to an end. Does he not observe the Ice Tribe's rituals? A lack of piety is a worrisome trait, even in young children."

"Chief Kilma has assured me that the gods of the Ice Tribe will accept his late offerings."

King Xander's face split open in a skittish smile, the corners of his mouth trembling as they twitched upward. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Once again, Arthur did not respond. A few moments of stale silence passed, King Xander never once looking away from the boy, sizing him up under his heavy gaze. But eventually, he slowly lifted his chin towards the exit. "He may go."

Percy expected his pops to come get him, but when he turned, he saw what  _had_  to be Lady Peri approaching him. She was just as Arthur described: wild two-toned hair, wide eyes, and caked-on makeup. She extended her hand to him. "C'mon, let's go!"

Her tone was cheerful, but Percy did not want to take her hand. He fought the urge to cry, recoil in fear, and run over to his pops. There was something not quite  _right_  with her, something darker lurking beneath her sweet, wide smile. Back home, his pops was always quick to whisk him away from old women who wanted to pinch his cheeks and enthusiastic generals who wanted to start his training a few years early. Why wasn't he coming to save him now?

Lady Peri bent forward and whispered, "hey, hey: now's the part where you take my hand, and I take you to play with my son and the other royal babies. Unless," her unblinking eyes seemed to grow even larger, "you wanna stay here with King Xander…?"

Percy's immediately took her hand, much more willing to risk whatever evil Lady Peri had planned than suffer under the king's heavy gaze for a moment longer. She nearly dragged him out of the throne room, and then down several winding corridors. Soon they were before a large set of ironclad doors, an effigy of the Dusk Dragon guarding the entrance from above. Lady Peri opened it, and enthusiastically waved him inside. Being the unwavering tribesman he was supposed to be, Percy obliged.

The first thing he heard upon entering the room was a sharp gasp. "Auntie, please! We're indecent!"

Percy peeked out from behind Lady Peri, and saw four children in various states of play. The boy who spoke was on his knees, carrying a small girl on his back. The girl had a bed sheet tied around her neck and a wooden sword in her hand; she was obviously engaged in mock battle against another girl with lavender braids, who held a thin book of spells in her hand. And the last child—the prettiest by far—sat at the dresser, experimenting with various ribbons.

"'Indecent'?!" Lady Peri placed a hand to her chest, eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Was it 'indecent' when me and King Garon and everybody went in to slaughter the Chevois? Was it 'indecent' when we defeated their rebels, put their severed heads on spikes, and drove their evil leader into exile? Was it  _'indecent'_  when we came home victorious, covered in the blood and guts of—"

"Mother,  _please,"_ the child at the dresser pleaded, his expression the very vision of perfect stoicism that Percy always aspired to, but could never achieve.

Lady Peri cleared her throat, all smiles again. "Battles, mock or otherwise, are far from 'indecent'! And," she turned to Percy, "I'm sure our new friend would agree! This is Percy, fourth in line to the Ice Tribe!"

Percy stepped out from behind Lady Peri, and resisted the urge to jump up, wave, ask if he could join their play session. He instead bowed in deference, as was proper. "Pleased to meet—"

"Wait! I know who you are!" the girl with the wooden sword jumped off her cousin's back and sprinted over to him. "You're Arthur's son! Yes! Mom told me all about you!"

"Oh boy, she did?" Percy studied the girl's face. There was something familiar about her, like he once saw her features on somebody else. Her cloudy grey eyes, her wispy blonde hair, her porcelain skin, her bubbly manner…

"Yes! And she was right, you really  _are_  cool looking..." She took a step back and studied him, lightly stroking the black feathers that framed his collar.

Percy thought about who her mother might be. She was a royal, so that narrowed it down considerably. He knew the king and queen had one son; the king's three younger siblings also only had one child each. And she couldn't be Lady Peri's daughter, the boy sitting at the dresser already addressed her as such.

He glanced behind the girl's shoulder and caught sight of the mock spellcaster with lavender braids. If he remembered it right, only one of the siblings wasn't a natural blonde, and it was Lady Camilla. So that only left…

Percy grinned. "Wow, Lady Elise sure knows how to talk a guy up!" She paused mid-stoke, wide eyes flickering up to meet his. "But pops told me a lot about you too,  _Princess Ophelia_. I'm so happy I finally get to see you myself!"

An impish smile spread across Princess Ophelia's face. "Well, we should get to know each other better. And that means meeting my siblings!" She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him over to meet the other royal children. "The valiant horse is Siegbert, the wicked diviner is Nina, and the beautiful hostage is Forrest."

"I said I wasn't playing," Prince Forrest remarked dryly, idly examining another ribbon.

Unfazed, Princess Ophelia turned back to Percy. "Would you like to join us? You can be the noble chief who comes to aide me in my fight for justice."

"J-justice…?" Percy whispered, interest piqued.

Lady Peri soon left the bundle of children to their own devices, and in the absence of watchful eyes they created an elaborate war game. Opehlia was the brave warrior who was of royal blood, but unaware of it. Percy was the sagely chief who taught the hotheaded warrior valuable lessons about mercy and forgiveness. And those lessons aided her in her quest to rescue the blissfully unaware lord from the clutches of the most evil, most cunning witch to ever crawl out of Hoshido.

In the end, the warrior discovered that she was of royal blood. She and her chief rode into battle against the vile diviner, and at the last moment, when all hope seemed lost, the warrior revealed her true lineage. "Can you really stand up to the blood of the Dusk Dragon?!" she cried out dramatically, and in an instant her body— _Princess Ophelia's_ body—glowed. A ball of light rose from her chest and fell back to the ground.

The entire room shimmered with translucent flakes of light, dancing around the royal children. The diviner clutched her chest and screamed, falling to the floor in convulsions before finally going stiff.

"Yes, victory!" Princess Ophelia threw her arm around Percy's shoulders. "Come, my good chief! Let's go get the helpless lord-"

"But I said I wasn't playing."

"—so I can drop down on one knee, and ask if he wants to get married!"

"Stop that. We're related."

But Percy had already forgotten the game. "Golly gee, how'd you do that?!"

"Why, you saw how I won, my chief!"

Percy shook himself out of her grasp, turning to face her. "I'm serious, princess! You did something to the ground!"

The girl blinked, woken from her playtime spell. "Oh, that? You've never seen a Dragon Vein before? I thought your father would've told you."

"He did, but I thought they were for battle! I didn't think one of them could be so…  _pretty_."

"They usually aren't," Nina explained, sitting up. "What you just saw is one of the rare harmless ones."

"Yes. Its pulse is also unusually faint. It was grandfather who first found it, not long after I was born," Prince Siegbert continued. "He activated it, and I was the only one effected. So he said the area was 'blessed with innocence'.'" He shrugged. "Or at least, that's how mother describes it. So he had the room built for me, and it was expanded when everyone else was born so we could all stay here. The dragon vein is in the center, if you haven't noticed."

Percy walked over to where Princess Ophelia was. "It's here?"

She nodded, and Percy tried to see if he could feel the Dragon Vein himself. He jumped up and down on the spot. "Doesn't seem so special to me," he quipped, already comfortable with the royal children. "What does it feel like for you guys?"

"Like we're being pulled down into the earth… and when we activate it, it's like pulling that energy up through our bodies," Prince Siegbert explained. "Though I'm sure that sounds a bit confusing…"

"Nope! It makes sense." He grinned. "What a wicked-cool power!"

* * *

That night, Percy was supposed to sleep in the same room as his father; but at the insistence of the royal children, he spent the night with them instead. A servant then brought in a bed for him to sleep in, but Princess Ophelia asked him to share a bed with her.

"It's so hot!" she explained, laying down and patting the spot beside her as a way of welcoming him in. "Mom tells me that people from your tribe are always cold, no matter what time of year. I'd be so happy if you stayed here with me."

Percy placed his hands on his hips. "Is that a  _royal decree?"_  he teased.

The youngest princess turned her nose up in the air, trying her best not to smile. "Of course! Everything I say is!"

So they slept facing each other, the princess chatting away about her 'siblings' and the court and her magical lessons. She told him about her grandfather, King Garon, who passed away the year before. She remembered him not as the warlord her aunt described, but as the playful man who let her ride on his shoulders, the patriot who showed her the greatness of Nohr, the astronomer who taught her about the stars. But her chatting came to a halt when he asked her about King Xander.

"Uncle is… okay," she finally whispered, eyes averted. "He's doing his best."

* * *

He didn't bring up King Xander for the rest of his stay there. He instead did what the royal children wanted to do, which included more war games, running through the castle halls, visiting the stable animals, storytime with Lady Camilla and Lady Elise. When it came time for them to leave, the royal children asked if he was coming back. Percy said he would.

Suddenly, Princess Ophelia came up and threw her arms around him. She held him that way for what felt like a long time. "You promise...?"

She almost sounded sad. If he wasn't coming back before, he had to now. "Yeah," he hugged her in return. "I promise!"

* * *

On the way home, Percy chattered on and on about the trip. He thought Krakenburg was amazing, it's circular, concave structure unique to anything he'd ever seen before. He also noticed how the streets of Windmire curved around the castle. It reminded him of one of their effigies of the moon, carved into a sheet of ice with lines etched around it to symbolize her ethereal glow. So Krakenburg was like the moon, then? Were the citizens like stars? Arthur ruffled his hair, and said he had a mind like his aunt.

"I like the kids there. I made so many new friends!"

"I'm glad you did, son! Lady Elise told me they like you, too. They don't get to meet kids their age too often." Arthur stroked the back of Percy's head. "But I'm sure you're tired and ready to go home, right?"

"Well... I am. I do miss mom and Dwyer and everybody else. But I wanna go back soon! We can, right?"

"Of course! King Xander told me so himself: you can come back  _anytime_."

* * *

_There was a divide between what people knew about the Shrine Attack, and what actually happened._

_Years later, when he told people his heritage and they finally stopped soiling themselves, the first question would always be:_  were you there for the Shrine Attack?

 _And he would tell them the truth_ : no, I wasn't.  _He and Arthur had been away at Krakenburg at the time. Ophelia would usually jump in at this point, waxing poetic about how fate favored both him and his father, how her retainer was born under a blessed star, how the gods were certainly thinking of her when they made Percy, because what else could explain such a miraculous stroke of luck?_

_Percy would never say it to her face, but he didn't agree. He hated that his luck kept him from living though that first attack, the one that changed everything. He wished he'd been there to see the progression, because nothing—not any of the violence and misfortune to come—shocked him as much as coming back did._

_When he left, the Ice Tribe was located on Ice Mountain, where everybody knew everybody and nobody locked their doors. It was where he lived with his family, all under one roof: him, his mom, his pops, Aunt Flora, Uncle Jakob, Grandpa Kilma, and Dwyer. The simple things that made up his world._

_On their way back he and Arthur came to the Woods of the Forlorn, expecting the isolated area to be their last stop before reaching the shrine at the base of the mountain. Instead, the place was littered with Ice Tribesmen: scattered on the ground, moaning in pain, tending to their burn wounds. All faces Percy recognized._

_The town baker lost his right arm from the elbow down, bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around the stump as he stared blankly at the ground. The taxidermist had half her face burned, cheek nearly melted though; she lay on the side where her face wasn't injured, screaming from some deep guttural part of her throat. The general's son had been stabbed though, staring up at the sky and murmuring his prayers as his life slipped away. He saw several women with blood leaking out from under their skirts, trickling down their ankles and getting lost in the mossy swamp ground. Children he went to school with, crying hard for parents who were probably dead._

_There came a point where Arthur abruptly slammed his hand over Percy's eyes. They then made a sharp left turn. The air smelled like someone was trying to cook spoiled meat, and he begged his pops to tell him what was going on. But as he did in Krakenburg before King Xander, Arthur did not respond._

_When he finally lifted his hand from Percy's face, they were standing in front of his mom. Felicia's pretty white dress was soiled and torn, black feathers strewn about her. The ends of her blossom colored hair were charred, and Percy swore her pale blue eyes had grown a shade darker. Around her, fireflies swarmed._

_The first thing she did was fall to her knees and pull Percy in to a hug. She held him tighter than she ever had before, slowly stroking the back of his head, her chest hitching at certain points. She pressed her soft cheek against his, and he could feel the dampness. His mother—who always carried the faint hint of flowers—smelled like smoke._

_When she finally let go, she got up and hugged Arthur in the same bone-crushing way. He held her close and murmured something into her ear. For years after Percy would wonder what his father said, because whatever it was finally caused Felicia to break. She tilted her head back and sobbed to the sky, knees buckling beneath her as she collapsed into Arthur's arms._

_Seeing Felicia's condition disturbed Percy beyond words. He backed away involuntarily, slamming against a dead tree._

_And it was then when_ it _happened, the sound and sight that came to define the entire event to him. Behind him, he suddenly heard someone else wail even louder than Felicia. A voice he knew too well._

_"Mom, no! Mom, please! No no no!"_

_Everything came to a standstill, the air around him thick like molasses. Percy turned on his heel to face Dwyer and whatever it was Aunt Flora was doing to him. He saw the family unit of three, and each became subjects in themselves:_

_Uncle Jakob was lying limp on the ground, his charred and blackened face staring blankly in Percy's direction. Several Ice Tribesmen were pinning Dwyer down as he struggled, every part of him moving except for his mangled left leg, covered in blood. And his Aunt Flora—with her grim determination, and the inner strength of one thousand men—stared down at her son with her steely gaze, axe raised high above her head._

_It came down. She severed Dwyer's ruined leg from the rest of his body. The sharp sound of steel crunching against bone cut through the air. Dwyer abruptly stopped screaming, his entire body gone rigid from the shock. Blood spattered across Flora's face and chest. As the other Ice Tribesmen tended to Dwyer, Flora slowly turned to face Percy._

_And everything was fast again. Felicia sprinted over to Flora as Arthur picked him up, carrying him away in the opposite direction. Percy's eye's darted everywhere, but he could still feel his aunt's crushing gaze on him._ And where were you. And where were you. And where were you.

* * *

_At least in Nohr, most people simply thought of the Shrine Attack as the official start to the Ice-Flame War._

_But it was more than that. It was the end of an age._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back with more suffering.
> 
> I realize giving insomnia to a character who's All About Naptime might seem occ, but the naps are coming back, I promise. There's also a certain other character who may come off as more... intense than he normally would, but to that I say: war makes you do crazy shit, especially when it hits close to home. I was always disappointed that FE:A and FE:F never went into into the effects of war and death and what it makes people capable of doing, so I decided to touch on that here with one character in particular. 
> 
> That's all. Comments/feedback are always welcome and appreciated :)
> 
> **(Warnings for mild gore. Warnings for character death.)**

**II**

  _age 8  
_

 

_Back home, he and Dwyer were expected to wake up at the sixth hour of every dark-day._

_For Percy this was never a problem. Sleep would leave him as casually as it came, his eyes always lifting open just when he needed to be awake. He’d get up and open the window, allowing the brisk morning air to do away with every ounce of drowsiness he had. Sometimes, he even woke up before his parents._

_Dwyer was another case. A night where it only took him an hour to fall asleep was considered a success, since it usually took him three or more. Percy would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the intention of sneaking out, only to turn and see his cousin staring up at the ceiling with a look of vague annoyance on his face._

_It wasn’t something either of their mothers could heal, so he was forced to live with it. Every morning Percy was the one to wake Dwyer up, placing a hand on his cheek and channeling his inner cold onto his cousin. That never failed to jolt him awake, but he became sluggish again after that. He’d shift around in bed for a few minutes before half-heartedly sitting up; he’d then go on to stare blankly at the space around him, exhaustion still evident on his face._

_By this point, Percy would already be dressed. He’d bounce into the kitchen and greet the rest of his family. He always sat right next to Arthur; Grandpa Kilma sat at the head of the table. He’d talk with his father and grandfather while he snarfed down his breakfast. They always humored Percy’s interests, engaging him in his talk of wyverns and superheroes and justice, and Chief Kilma in particular was all patience and good humor when around with his beloved grandson. It was usually just as Percy was wrapping up that Dwyer would come shuffling in._

_And he was always a sight: poor posture, unwashed hair, clothes in disarray. Uncle Jakob never failed to pounce on his son as soon as he walked through the door._

_“Ah, I see the young chief got it in him to finally wake up!” he might sneer. Or, “I hope you don’t think we saved any food for you.” Or even, “You wouldn’t survive a day at Castle Krakenburg. For the tribe’s sake I hope you never ascend to the chair.”_

_The words never seemed to faze his cousin; he’d simply stare at his father impassively, unmoved by his rancor. What Dwyer never seemed to notice was Flora’s pursed lips, or Arthur’s averted gaze, or the utter disappointment that radiated from their grandfather._

_His shiftlessness began in the morning and extended throughout the day. They were never on time because of Dwyer’s shuffling. He never did his homework, did little to participate in class, dispassionately did his chores, and didn’t ever appear to be listening when Flora or Grandpa Kilma sat him down and tried to teach him the basics of leading the tribe._

_One day Percy asked Dwyer why he acted the way he did. His cousin’s response surprised him._

“ _Because none of it matters,” Dwyer told him. They sat at the edge of the tribe’s ice pond, Dwyer looking pensively at his reflection. Percy tried to wrap his head around what was just said to him:_ school doesn’t matter? The tribe doesn’t matter? What about our family? What about the moon? _Dwyer must have sensed his confusion, because he elaborated:_

" _What I mean is, nothing_ I _do matters. Dad’s always gonna hate me. Mom’s always gonna expect more. Your parents will always pity me. You’ll always be grandpa’s favorite. The tribe will always pray that I never become chief. I can’t do anything to change it, so what’s the point of trying?”_

_Dwyer looked at him with mouse eyes. Percy wanted to destroy those villainous feelings of inadequacy, but all he could do to battle them was insist “that’s not true!”_

_At once the look was gone. In its place stood a monumental barrier, one he could never topple with idealism alone. “It_ is _true, but it’s fine. I’m happy with myself. Really, I am. Why should I change” he tilted his head, a small smile ghosting across his face, “when_ I’m _not the asshole?”_

* * *

 

Right after the Shrine Attack, Dwyer never slept. Neither did Percy.

At home they slept a few feet from each other, but in the Woods of the Forlorn they were made to sleep side-by-side on the ground. Dwyer spent all his time curled in a ball, mewling in agony. He shook violently from the pain. He would occasionally reach up to scratch or smack his left leg, and when his tiny hands grabbed at nothing he would curl up even tighter, sobbing into his right knee.

Percy could do nothing to put him at ease. His cousin didn’t want to be touched, and his mind was so far off that he barely registered any words of comfort. Percy could only watch his bloody stump for any sign of infection and rub salve on his burn wounds whenever the pain became too great.

He wondered what his Uncle Jakob would have thought of his son’s condition, had he lived. Would this have been the breaking point, the moment he finally felt a pang of sympathy for his son? Or would his hard heart prove to be unmovable even in such dire circumstances?

Aunt Flora wasn’t much help. She barely came to see them, spending most of her time leading the search effort to find Grandpa Kilma. Whenever she came around all she’d do is ask Felicia how he was doing, and once she got her report she’d set out again. She never once looked at her son, who would watch her the entire time with blank, soulless eyes. 

One day Percy couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know, or he’d just die. “Hey mom?”

She was throwing wild herbs in her cauldron. Without looking up for her work, she smiled in greeting. “Yes, sweetie?”

Percy looked around cautiously. Dwyer was well out of earshot and there wasn’t anyone else around, but he still thought it wise to lean in and whisper. “Why did Aunt Flora cut off Dwyer’s leg?”

Felicia froze. She stood there with her hand over the cauldron, fist clenched around a bushel of the latest mystery herb. “Oh, well… that’s…” She sighed heavily, arm falling back to her side. “It’s because Dwyer was hurt very, very badly. So badly that he never would have healed. If she let him keep it, he would have gotten an infection and died.” She crouched down so she could meet him at eye level. “I know it may be hard to understand, but Aunt Flora did what she did because she _loves_ Dwyer.”

“So… it’s okay to hurt the people you love?”

She took his face in her hands. “ _Only_ if it’s to save them, and _only_ if you have no other choice.”

“You would’ve done the same thing for me, then?”

His mom stared at him for what felt like a long time. “Sweetheart, do you know how much I love you?”

Percy smiled. He knew this game. “To the moon and the stars and back!”

Felicia laughed shortly, before shaking her head. “Wrong. I love you even more than _that_. Think all the way across the universe.”

He was taken aback. “Really?!”

She nodded. “Just like the universe, my love for you never ends. So yes,” she furrowed her brows, her pretty blue eyes filled with determination. “I _would_ do the same for you. If your life was in danger I would do anything to save it, even if it meant hurting you. Or myself.”

* * *

 Percy turned eight years old in the Woods of the Forlorn.

What usually happened for his birthday was he would be allowed to stay home from school. He and Arthur would go into town and his pops would treat him to a new toy. After that they’d wander through the woods, his pops regaling him with his tales of heroism both before and during his service to Lady Elise. 

When school let out, they’d go pick up Dwyer. Then the lot of them would go home where Felicia would be finishing up his birthday pastry. The kitchen would be a mess, there would be several burnt failures piled high in the trash, but the one she presented to him never failed to be perfect.

They would sing him his birthday song and all have a piece of the pastry. Grandpa Kilma, Aunt Flora, and Uncle Jakob would come home a few hours later, bearing gifts sent from people around the tribe. All of them were things he had no current interest in or immediate use for, like armor for when he started his training, books without any pictures in them, and clothes several sizes too big. It was tradition to send children gifts they would only want or need in the future as a way of wishing long life upon them. To many in the tribe, it was _Arthur_ who was thought of as offbeat for always treating his son to something he chose himself.

But for his eighth birthday, none of the above was possible. His pops was leading a larger effort on the borders of the forest to keep the siege at bay, and he couldn’t afford to take a break from that. His mom spent most of her time gathering and boiling and testing and serving up wild herbs and vegetables. Dwyer was too consumed by his pain to pay attention to much of anything. Aunt Flora was still out looking for Grandpa, and Uncle Jakob was dead.

So Percy played with ladybugs. He picked up snails and let them slither up and down his arms. Mom told him to never touch the brightly colored mushrooms, so he admired them visually instead. He ran his fingers against the groves of withered tree bark. He counted the fireflies swarming around Dwyer, nice sprites keeping watch over his wounded cousin.

That night, he overheard his parents talking.

“Another skirmish?” he could hear the frown in his mom’s voice.

“I’m afraid so, my dear. But not to worry! We dispatched those unjust fiends with hardly a dent in our own numbers!”

“I can see some dents in your armor, though.”

“Oh, that? I merely tripped and fell on a cluster of particularly pointy rocks. Don’t vex yourself over it.”

Felicia didn’t answer immediately, and even at his young age Percy wasn’t sure he believed his father either. “Well, is there any sign of them stopping?”

“The Flame Tribe is… quite determined. But,” and here, Percy could practically see his father’s heroic grin, “so am I!”

“I know you are,” his mom whispered. “But we can’t stay like this forever. Have you cleared a path back up the mountain?”

“I’m afraid not. Scores of Flame Tribesmen still block every viable path.” Arthur sighed. “Attacking them there would require every soldier we have. It would leave the rest of you vulnerable, and that isn’t a gamble I’m willing to take.”

Knowing his mother, she was probably wringing her hands. “Maybe… we should seek help from Nohr.” Arthur didn’t respond, but Percy knew he at least had to make some sort of gesture. Looking pointedly away? Shaking his head? Whatever it was, it set Felicia off. _“_ Why not?!”

“Because…” Arthur paused, and when he spoke again Percy heard a clear edge in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Our new king isn’t big on providing what he so charmingly refers to as ‘ _charity’_.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _charity’_? This is a matter of national security!” Felicia sounded angry now. “The Flame Tribe isn’t any more independent from Hoshido as we are from Nohr. This is an _invasion.”_ He could hear her pacing across the mossy swamp ground. “Just last year, the Ice Tribe was referred to as ‘ _one of Nohr’s most loyal and cherished territories’_. We’ve never rebelled against the crown. To come to our aide would be the same as when Nohrian forces went in to suppress the Hoshidan sympathizers in Cheve.”

“I agree, but all that was said and done under King Garon—may he rest in peace with the Dusk Dragon. King Xander is taking things in a new direction, and he prioritizes the capital above all else.”

A long silence passed between them. Percy leaned against the back of the tree he was stationed behind, tilting his head to look at the moon. So, King Xander didn’t want to help them? It’d only been a few weeks since he met the king, but it felt like ages since he’d given any thought to the broad-shouldered man who towered above everyone in Krakenburg. His gaze was inscrutable, Percy knew that firsthand, and he could see him giving Arthur that same disparaging look before denying his request for aide. Percy couldn’t imagine King Xander helping anyone, really.

“What about Lady Elise?” she whispered.

“Er, no. She can’t help much help anyway.”

“She’s a princess,” Felicia countered shortly.

“King Xander is iron-fisted. His siblings hold no power and very little sway.”

“Who’s to say the king even has to know? They say the bright light of Nohr is a bit of a trickster.”

“People exaggerate! A handful of pranks and secret trips to the Underground does _not_ make her a master manipulator.” Arthur exhaled hard. “But… Lady Elise _is_ one of the most just people I know. She would help us, but it would be extremely limited.”

“Limited to what? How many men could she send?”

“Effie.” He paused. “ _Perhaps_ Lord Odin if Lord Leo hasn’t sent him on some heroic mission.”

“That’s all?”

“King Xander is quite preoccupied with the national army, I doubt she could move anyone there without attracting attention.”

“What about supplies?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well…” Percy could hear the nervous uptick in her voice. “It’s better than nothing—“

“And what if one of them died in battle? Lady Elise would be devastated, and how would Lord Odin’s sudden death be explained to the king?”

“He got lost in an epic daydream and wandered onto a battle scene, getting scorched to a crisp. He botched a teleportation spell and wound up on the business end of a flame club. He decided to honor the barbarians with one of his Monologues of Pitch Darkness and got clobbered for his trouble.” Of all things, Felicia laughed. “I think you’re forgetting I once knew Odin well, and long before he married the princess.”

“Felicia—“

“The frontliners will be able to deal with your absence for a few days.” She lowered her voice. “You know we can’t go on like this. This is our only hope.”

Arthur left an hour later. Percy pretended to be asleep when he came to say goodbye, knowing he’d be too tempted go along if he actually saw his father leave.

* * *

Life went on as usual for three more days. On the fourth, it was over.

That was the only way Percy could think of it in hindsight. If the Shrine Attack was the end of an age, the Second Attack was the end of making snow angels and laughing with his mouth open and believing his parents were eternal and immutable. They weren’t. Nothing was.

He couldn’t go to sleep on his own anymore, but if enough time passed his body would simply shut down out of exhaustion. He could always tell when it was coming. Right before the sweet darkness washed over his head he’d felt warm in a way Ice Tribesmen never do. It was comparable only to when he and his mother sat on the side of the mountain, looking up at the moon, his head against her chest. (No one else’s heartbeat would ever sound as sweet as hers.)

It was after one of those times that Percy was awoken by the sound of steel cutting through air. His eyes shot open just as the weapon hit the tree, inches above his head.

_"Bastard!”_

Percy never heard his mom swear before. Why would she use such a naughty word? And why was that weapon shaped so funny? Who ever thought to use a circular dagger?

Beside him, Dwyer had already sat up. He was peeking around the edge of the tree, in the opposite direction from which the weapon came. He grabbed Percy’s upper arm and shifted his weight to his right, looking ready to roll over. “C’mon.”

“Wait!” Percy tried to free himself, but his cousin’s grip was surprisingly firm. “Mom’s in trouble! We can’t just—”  
  
_"We’re_ in trouble!” Dwyer rasped. He turned to his right and dragged both himself and Percy around the base of the tree, unmoved by his cousin’s squirming. When they made it around the tree and away from the clearing where the battle was taking place, Dwyer threw himself on top of Percy to keep him from running. Percy was strong, but no match for his cousin’s dead weight.

"What are you doing?! Lemme go, _please_ let me go, I can’t just leave her—!”

“Auntie’ll be fine.” His apathetic slur was back. “She’s got a weapon. We don’t. Trust me, we’re better off hiding.”

“Why are you doing this?” they heard Felicia ask. Both boys fell silent. “You’re not even a Flame Tribesman!”

“Do you say that because of my complexion? Because I wield shirukin instead of flame clubs? Because I don’t sport the same facial markings as the rest of them?” His voice was like spring water—calm, but incredibly rich. Beautiful, even. “How presumptuous. Tell me, where is your husband’s dagger? Where are _his_ black feathers?”

“You know about Arthur?”

“I know about your entire family. I’ve been watching you for a while now.” He chuckled. “What a treacherous climate! It truly put my training to the test. How your husband and brother-in-law adapted, I’ll never know.”

He was talking like they were old friends, like his tribe wasn’t trying to decimate theirs, like he didn’t just try to kill them with his strange circle-knife.

“Why were you watching us? Why did you attack us so viciously?”

“Because every crime under the sun must be accounted for.”

“What crime?”

“Your people decimated a certain Hoshidan village. That village…” he paused. “… what you did has put the Flame Tribe in a precarious position. It doesn’t matter what your reasons were. We are here to make sure your crime is paid for in _full._ ”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Our tribe only comes down at the end of each season.”

“Yes, and the attack took place at the end of spring.”

“We haven’t attacked anyone since we settled on Ice Mountain five hundred years ago. There’s been no reason to.”

“Again, I have no interest in your motive. We have definitive proof that it was your tribe that destroyed my—!” the voice stopped, but when he picked up again Percy practically _feel_ his white knuckles curled into a fist. “I’ll put this in words you can understand. I have a daughter the same age as your son. Your actions have put her at risk of dying a slow, painful death. Things have been dire since last season, and if things do not change soon… well. It’s only fitting that you see what I’ve seen, heard what I’ve heard, and know what I know.”

There was a rustle through the trees and then suddenly, the man was standing before him and Dwyer.

“So the rumors are true.” He eyed Dwyer’s stump. “Your new chief is more brutal than your last.”

They said all Flame Tribesmen had eyes that burned with passion and fury, but when the boys looked up at the ninja they saw a smoldering disdain comparable only to King Xander. Fireflies swarmed around him. He held another circular dagger pinched between his fingertips, ready to attack with the flick of his wrist.

“Tell me Felicia, why is Percy’s life more valuable than my daughter’s?”

His mom was still behind them, not having moved since the ninja came before them. “Get away from him,” she whispered, voice quaking.

“Wrong answer. It should be obvious: his life is no more precious than hers. Your son enjoys playing the hero. My daughter finds joy in making medicine. Your child likes war games. Mine likes practicing her marksmanship. Percy is now third in line to the chief’s chair. Midori is first. They are the same: innocent, blameless children.” He was glaring behind them now, directly at Felicia. “So tell me, what gave you the right to put her life in danger? To forsake giving thanks to your useless gods, to invade Hoshido and destroy Igasato for…!” He lifted his hand and tossed the shirukin again, landing it just above Percy’s head. Felicia shrieked. _“For what?!”_

Dwyer was shaking. Behind them Percy could hear his mom’s hitched sobbing, her desperate gasps—the most horrible sound in the world. “Don’t hurt him, please, please don’t hurt my baby…”

The ninja smiled, but just like King Xander’s it was shaky and twisted. “I felt the way you feel now, not long ago. My daughter and I were out in the forest gathering herbs when she suddenly collapsed. I brought her back home as fast as I could, my wife summoned every healer from every one of our villages, but there was nothing they could do. Her pulse was so faint. Her eyes were so sunken. We thought we would lose her, but they say the God of Flame pays special attention to the prayers of parents. She eventually regained consciousness and is with us still.” He pointed at Felicia, his other four fingers wrapped around another blade. “But know this, daughter of the late Chief Kilma: it’s the actions of _your_ people that did that to her and so many others in our tribe. Every sin under the sun must be accounted for. Know that the day that I bury my daughter is the night you bury your son.”

Behind them, Felicia continued to cry. Percy drew his knees to his chest, paralyzed by the knowledge that the ninja was willing to kill him, and all just to hurt his mom. He didn’t think he’d feel safe again, not for as long as he lived.

Suddenly, a dagger shot through the air—but it didn’t come straight ahead, as it would’ve if it had come from Felicia. Instead it shot up from the ground and was aimed at the ninja’s neck. He dodged it easily before honing in on the source. “Ah, so you train even your children to fight. How savage of you.”

Dwyer was paralyzed in place, arm still extended outward from where he’d let his dagger fly. Percy could hardly wrap his head over what had just happened.

“You ought to be more careful.” The ninja took a step forward. “In battle, every ‘warrior’ is fair game...”

“No,” Felicia gasped. “Percy is a good boy, he didn’t mean to—!”

The ninja’s blade gleamed in the moonlight. “And I promise you, my weapon is much sharper than yours…”

_“Stop it!”_

Felicia shot a dagger at him, and the ninja dodged again. He then jumped up into the trees and landed before the ice princess. Percy squirmed out from beneath his cousin—much easier now that he was frozen in shock. But by the time he made it around the tree, it was already over:

The ninja was gone. So was his mom. She laid collapsed in the center of the clearing, blood pumping out of the gash on her neck.

* * *

 

The Second Attack was granted a generic name because it couldn’t be compared to the Shrine Attack’s carnage. There was no widespread loss of property, no burn victims or amputees. It was a battle between two where just one walked away, but Percy still felt like the color had drained out of his world.

He sat at the base of the tree all night, too afraid to approach Felicia’s corpse. He hoped (and even half-expected) her to stir, sit up again, wrap her hand around her wound and heal herself. There were still many moons for them to look up at together. She had to get up, so when the path cleared she could go home with them again. The swamp-woods wasn’t for her, she belonged at the top of Ice Mountain. As close to the sky as could be.

But when his Aunt Flora came at the start of the dark day and fell to her knees at the sight of her sister, Percy knew it was real. The horrible baby-cry he’d been holding in came crashing out; Flora rushed over. _Where’s Dwyer, where’s Dwyer,_ she asked again and again. They walked around the tree and found him lying on his side, with that same infuriatingly aimless stare.

Arthur returned later that day—followed by Effie, and Lord Odin, and a small ragtag army several-hundred strong. What followed was the Battle of the Bridge, where the Flame Tribe was pinned between Arthur’s army and the Ice Tribe frontliners near the bridge separating the Woods of the Forlorn from Fort Dragonfall. More and more Flame Tribesmen were called away from their stations to fight at the bridge, leaving pathways open at the edges of the forest; however, the soldiers blocking the pathways back up the mountain remained where they were. So they pressed outward, further still from the home, carrying the wounded on their backs and the dead in traveling wagons.

Percy remained glued at Aunt Flora’s side, but he caught glimpse of the army Arthur had amassed as they escaped the woods. Almost all of them were men. They fought without armor, dressed in rags and covered in scars, relishing in the carnage and executing whoever was foolish enough to surrender (regardless of which side they were on). Even Percy knew that they couldn’t be part of the national army, but when he asked Flora who they were all she said was, “they’re heroes.”

 _Heroes._ Then his pops had to be the greatest hero of all, being the one who brought them together. And surely a hero that great could close the gaping hole in his chest. He hadn’t seen Felicia since they’d thrown her limp body into the back of the wagon, but his pops could make her better, couldn’t he? Just one look from a true hero could bring someone back to life. He had to believe it was possible. Heroes could do anything.

But when the battle finally ended three days later and Arthur met them at Fort Dragonfall, he didn’t bring Felicia back to life. He couldn’t. Aunt Flora had kept her corpse frozen to prevent decay, and all he did was hold her tiny blue hand. He stood that way for hours. Percy was sure his pop’s didn’t even notice him watching from afar.

* * *

_Percy and Dwyer never spoke about the Second Attack._

_Years later when Percy went to visit, he and Dwyer would eat their meals seated at opposite ends of their large, rectangular table. When they were young Dwyer always wrote off the unity between them and Percy never thought they could lose it; but once it was gone, there was a long stretch of empty space between them that could  never be filled. Their conversations were always stiff:_

How’s the princess?

Fine. How’s the tribe?

Okay.

You need any more money?   

We always need more money.

I’ll see what I can do.

Thanks.

 _Their ghostly conversations would sometimes be pockmarked by crows squawking in the distance, or the low rumbling of thunder, or the ticking of their grandfather clock. They rarely looked directly at each other, but when they did Percy’s sight always snagged on the wrinkles around his cousin’s deep-set eyes, or the permanent tremble in his hands, or how his face was forever wan with dread._

_Percy knew most of the tribe considered him to be lucky. He wasn’t present for most of the war, nestled behind the Dusk Dragon’s impenetrable walls. There he had his father, was fed well, and was safe from all Flame Tribesman everywhere. And didn’t he have a faithful wyvern companion? Didn’t he have royal allies? Of course, he was fortunate in a way no one else was._

_What they all seemed to forget was his “disappearance”. Dwyer was one of the few to notice how he changed after that. When Percy returned he went to see his tribe first, and as his aunt gave him an all-too-rare hug he locked eyes with his cousin from across the room. Percy would never forget that look of deep-knowing. Not for as long as he lived._

* * *

  _Ophelia once asked why he didn’t try to re-forge his relationship with his cousin. To Percy, the answer was simple:_

_“The past is always gonna be there. There’s nothing he can do to change it, so what’s the point of trying?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye Felicia! 
> 
> ... too soon?


End file.
